


ce que nous perdons

by scrubbadub



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Canon Era, Curses, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Magic, OC's - Freeform, a curse similar to the one used in the movie brave, but think like, for some vague point of reference, i dont like freeform tag over-usage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-11
Updated: 2020-09-11
Packaged: 2021-03-07 02:34:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,309
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26399518
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scrubbadub/pseuds/scrubbadub
Summary: Get a load of this monster,He doesn’t know how to communicate;His mind is in a different place,Will everybody please give him a little bit of space?Nobody anticipates there to be truth behind the rumors of magic in the streets of Paris. It’s an old wive’s tale people tell their children to get them to listen better before the world has dug its grip in. Enjolras, as smart as he may be, somehow manages to attract the attention of those who wield magic, however secretly they hold it. Grantaire is left with the aftermath, confused and trying his best to hold things together before they slip to pieces.
Relationships: Enjolras/Grantaire (Les Misérables)
Comments: 3
Kudos: 21





	ce que nous perdons

**Author's Note:**

> A HUGE thank you to my wonderful beta readers @insertsomethingwitty and @muse_in_absentia ! Wouldn't have been able to make this sound readable without y'all, lmao.
> 
> If you want to scream at me about any of my fics or want to talk about stuff, my Tumblr's @kytters!

It happens to Enjolras before he has a chance to truly digest what has transpired in the first place.

There is so much planning to be done for this week’s demonstration and the inevitable guardsmen to prepare for; they are far too haggard right now to afford another loss. If they are to gain allies, though, they have to spread the word. They have a right to speak. It’s been a good minute or two since the Les Amis have been able to assemble and properly speak to the public, but he’s been able to secure a location near one of the more populated shopping districts in this area, somewhere he’s sure they’ll reach interested minds. Enjolras is certain of this. They have a _right_ to this.

He finds himself deep in argument with a newcomer to the cafe at this current point. The man, someone lured in by his assertive commands drifting out from the open door of the Musain, seems to be taking great pleasure in interjecting every chance he gets, and Enjolras is quickly tiring of the roundabout they’re playing. Even Grantaire has been easier to speak to, today, a welcome reprieve.

Standing straight and firm, Enjolras faces off against his current opponent, gesticulating fiercely with his hands. “It is not as simple as wishing and wanting for change to happen, my friend! I do not understand why you refuse to think through this logically; if we are to meet and garner a corroboration, then we incite and stir the flames of rebellion in Paris’ hearts and minds! You could join us! Why do you _insist_ on ridiculing such an idea?”

The stranger purses his lips while sitting in his chair then leans back, props his feet up on the table, and grins, eyeing Enjolras coldly. There is something in his gaze he does not like, but his personal preference for who does and does not join their cause has never had to come into play before, and it will not come into play now. The cause is more important than himself. “Beware how you fly, Icarus, lest you soar too close to an ideal that burns you. I do not take kindly to little boys playing in petticoats and trenches pretending to be soldiers. You do little but strut about Paris and cause nothing but trouble. It will end in my inconvenience and your demise. To be perfectly honest, the smell of blood has never brought me much joy, and I deign not to smell it later, _which you will most certainly bring into the air_ by continuing.”

Enjolras balls his hands into fists. Aside from him, he can feel Marius tense up, but he does not get a chance to retort before Gavroche stomps over, making a point to roll up his sleeves. Gavroche speaks, levelling their troublemaker with a steely glare. “Oy! Enjolras ‘ere ain’t no boy, he’s gonna change Paris, ‘e is! You best know that! Piss off, you’ve been causin’ trouble all night!”

The man laughs, cruel and unempathetic, then retorts, eyeing Enjolras. “Oh, but he is a boy, as are all of you, and it would do well as a leader to fight his own battles, would it not?” 

He feels scrutinized. He does not let him see weakness in this face he wears. 

“Yes,” He begins, and puts a hand on Gavroche’s shoulder, guiding him back. “It would indeed. I attest we find some sort of middle ground if you are so unwilling and misguided to think that you can waltz in here and demean our cause for naught but a jest.” The tension in the room is tight, pulled taut like a string, and he can feel the others glancing nervously their way. Gavroche crosses his arms.

For all his tactless jeering, the man has taken to sneering at Enjolras. It’s strange, but he gets the feeling he himself is not being looked at - merely glanced at through a looking glass, a bottle, scrutinized under the distortion and warp of the reflecting surface. It’s unsettling. The man speaks, standing. “Do what you will, pretty boy. You coast along on words of fire and flame and guide along your sheep with your wicked crook. See what will happen when they realize your soul is uglier than the hide you wear. Where will your cause be, then, hm? When your outside no longer shimmers, will they linger then?”

Enjolras tsks. There’s a sharp, bitter laugh from Grantaire in the back of the room, and he glances over, furious; to the man’s credit, he does not look like he was joining in, merely reacting to the sentiment in mockery. Grantaire has always been _hard_ to figure out, tone wise. Deliberate in his ministrations of jest and jibes, there is seldom a moment where any of his remarks feel genuine, and he has no time to pick his current intentions apart in the situation.

He is surprised to find his opponent offers his hand to shake. He studies it for a moment, then grasps it firm, shaking his hand in dismissal. There is an electric feeling that sparks up his arm, then, jittery and blazing, and he yanks his hand back with a yelp, affronted and startled. The other man laughs. Turning, he waves, a fake smile plastered onto his face, and leaves.

Combeferre clears his throat, and Enjolras turns towards him as he speaks. “What a rude fellow. You must know that we do not listen to you merely because of your looks, though, do not let him try and shake you.” Rumbles of affirmation ripple throughout the cafe and it earns a laugh from him, warm and steady. His hand tingles, still. He flexes it to try and wring the feeling away.

“Oh, I am aware,” He begins, treading back to his place near the table. “I was simply hoping that when he made his first snide remark in the beginnings of our planning, I would be able to talk him out of causing a scene. The more friends we have on our side, the better, Combeferre. I take no shame nor assumption in what part my looks play in our success. I am not stupid enough to ignore how people look at me.”

Grantaire chimes in, tipping his bottle of alcohol towards the group in mock salute. “Surely, then, Apollo, you must be certain that it plays a _large_ part, perhaps deliberate, for your words sound implicative of the very notion.”

Enjolras rolls his eyes and turns away. “Do not patronize me. Dispose of your drink already. How many have you had tonight?”

“How many will you believe?” Grantaire’s response just frustrates him, makes something in his chest stir dark, and he rubs at his temples, ignoring the man. 

“Too many, certainly.” He grumbles this. He would rather not give Grantaire the satisfaction of hearing his goaded retort, not while he’s already stressed from the midday’s happenstance. Steering himself back on course, he turns back to the rest of the cafe.

“We will spread the word in the streets wherever we can in hopes that it will attract a large crowd. If we can reach new ears and new eyes, perhaps we can gather more allies for the coming fight. We must be careful of the guard, though. They’ve been getting more and more testy,” Enjolras reiterates.

Courfeyrac and Bahorel nod in agreement. Courfeyrac interjects, offering his own advice. “We could try to go down to the Faubourg Saint-Germain this time around, see if we can’t reach more influential ears! Besides, I do hear that the women of the upper echelons have quite a way with conversation, if you know what I mean-”

The conversation continues. Courfeyrac, after being approached and joined by Grantaire, bounce salacious inanities at each other in tandem, Marius laughing along. Enjolras finds his irritation growing. “We are not going to the Saint-Germain district to pick up women, _please_ try and take this more seriously, Courf’.” He does not mean to snap, but he does, and he sees Courfeyrac deflate, just a little. He turns to Grantaire after. “ _You_ need to sober yourself and stop egging things on, Grantaire, I have had enough debauchery from you to last a lifetime. Focus.”

“Oh, pardon my manners, for I have forgotten myself, have I not? Perhaps if I bend down to recollect my thoughts one might be able to see the shit you walk on and present it to you accordingly. Does that sound acceptable?" Grantaire is getting under his skin. He does not enjoy his needling and jokes, not right now, not when he can feel a headache just starting to build in-between his eyes. Enjolras takes the bottle of beer from him, setting it down on the table away from him.

Grantaire, for his credit, has enough sense left to look affronted only momentarily. "Fine, I acquiesce! God has spoken, he has cast me down from my drinking spot and left me parched! I shall dehydrate for you, as you command!"

Enjolras pinches at the bridge of his nose and takes a deep breath, then turns back to the conversation. "Can we continue, then? Are all of the interruptions done?"

Grantaire snorts, as does Courfeyrac, but they finally resume matters at hand. "Wonderful," Enjolras begins, recomposing himself. "We shall try to spread word around the working districts first. If we can get the tailor's union to recognize our cause, we might have a good leverage point in the case of issue, but this cannot be accomplished without them realizing where and when we are meeting. I have heard from sources inside that they are growing unrestful, that they have been subject to unwell conditions in their workplace, and getting them to fight with us for better adjustments and pay will go a long way for the rest of the worker's unions in Paris."

Marius clears his throat. "Enjolras, I do not mean to undermine, but if the National Guard interrupts this meeting as well, would the union not hesitate to offer their support?"

That's a good point. Enjolras decides that it is unworthy of lingering on, though, nods, and motions at the bartender behind the bench to pour him a water, replying in turn. "Which is why we must not give the Guard reason to interfere. We have a right to speak our mind and we shall execute that accordingly-- and if they refuse to recognize that, we flee. Standard procedure."

The planning goes like this for a while longer, details mapped out about where they shall go first, contingency plans for worst case scenarios; it's a minor comfort amidst the building tension in his neck and the lingering tingle in his hand, which he resolutely attempts to ignore. Grantaire's gaze does not leave him the entire time, though his words fly from his mouth all too normally. A shame he cannot put them to better use.

By the end of it, the sun glares through the windows and threatens to climb down the horizon. There is a painful throb behind his eyes he can no longer ignore. His hand has gone painfully numb. Every so often, he gives it a flex, if only to remind himself it still exists. Clinking something solid against a spare glass, he gathers the attention of his friends, who, now that the worst of it has passed, have started to chatter aimlessly amongst themselves. "If we are done with preparations, I assume we all know what we must do after we leave for today. I shall see you all tomorrow."

Courfeyrac and Marius adjourn together, chatting happily, and Combeferre remains before heading off. Grantaire is the only one who does not leave as everyone else does, lingering even after Gavroche slinks his way out, watching Enjolras carefully as he goes. Enjolras pretends not to notice. He does _not_ enjoy the scrutiny.

Grabbing a chair and pushing it back into place, he grips the wood a little harder than he should have and leaves behind a set of scratch marks, surface level and stark against the grain. He inspects them carefully, confused. 

"Run into a problem, there, o’ fearless leader?" Grantaire says. He's by the door, but still hasn't left. Enjolras waves a flippant hand in his direction and raises his head.

"No," Enjolras says, "I am just fine. I take it you won't be _participating_ in our venture tomorrow?" He isn't surprised. Grantaire rarely lends a hand. Why he sticks around, Enjolras has yet to figure out.

Grantaire does something he does not expect, though. He struts over and reaches out. Posture stiffening, he jerks back and Grantaire stops, drawing his own hand back. "Let me look at something for a moment, cease your jumpy nature. One day you shall snap like a ribbon with how tight you have pulled yourself, God's grace, Enjolras," Grantaire says, hesitant but firm.

Enjolras snaps back. "I do not need you attempting to find fault with me, Grantaire, we are all aware of what transpired earlier-- if you are worried about my constitution, there is _no need._ I was startled. Nothing more."

Grantaire reaches out again. Enjolras reluctantly lets him inspect his hand, though takes note of how tender and gentle he is with his ministrations. Grantaire turns his hand around, looking carefully, before plucking fuzz off of the back of his hand. He yelps and draws his palm away in irritation.

"What is your _issue_!!" Enjolras spits out, and in the back of his mind, he is tempted to bare his teeth. He is no animal, of course, so he is confused the notion occurred to him in the first place. He is tired and being poked at and he finds it justified, even if momentarily. 

Grantaire grasps at the air, then clasps the small, golden fuzz in his hand tight, frowning. "You've got fuzz!" When Grantaire refuses to elaborate, he crosses his arms, levelling him with a glare. "On your hand. And palm. There's a mark, there, look for yourself, see the claws, they are very real!"

Rolling his eyes, Enjolras decides fine, just this once he shall humor the man. If only to put his inane fretting to rest. He has no _time_ for these games.

"My hand is fine, you are a bumbling fool, look, see-" Enjolras cuts himself off before he can finish, because… well, he is wrong.

He is _wrong_ , and dread settles in his stomach, cold and foreboding.

There are claws where his nails had been mere hours earlier, dark and thick, and when he flexes his hands to make sure what he's seeing is real, behind the numb tingling still lingering in his palm, he can feel their blunt tips digging into his skin. There is indeed bits of light, blonde fuzz sprouting up along the top of his hand, near his wrist as well, and he chokes down a strangled sort of hysterical noise, panic bubbling up from his throat.

What in _God’s name?_

Attempting to take a deep breath, he shoves his hand into the pocket of his trousers and nods once. "A development, indeed," He begins, words carefully chosen, quietly spoken. "So it seems you were correct, Grantaire."

"I want to say it." Grantaire grins, and he knows his attempts to make light are meant in solidarity, he can see the worry in the man's eyes, but he really does not have the _patience_ for it. Not now. Not as he is.

"Grantaire," Enjolras warns.

"All right, okay, yes, fair point, I was just- you understand. I see it in your eyes. A drink?" Grantaire's nervously going on, now, grabbing his own confiscated drink from earlier and handing it to Enjolras as a show of comfort. He sneers down at it, then pushes through the initial disgust and accepts it with his good (human, perfectly normal and not at all disturbingly wrong, _comfortingly_ human) hand, eyeing it.

"... Normally, I would say no, but I am sprouting claws and God only knows what will happen after, so I think I shall, yes, thank you." He swallows down the remnants of the tepid alcohol with a grimace.

"Enjolras." There's no levity in Grantaire's tone, then, the conversation turning more serious. He sets the empty bottle down.

He doesn't want to talk about it. "I think we should figure out whether you are participating with us, yes, let’s discuss that," Enjolras says, trying to distract. 

Grantaire, for the first time in as long as Enjolras has known him, decides to take the situation seriously. He reaches out to rest a hand on Enjolras’s shoulder and this close, between the pounding of his panicked heart he is desperately trying to ignore and the proximity with Grantaire, he is hard pressed not to lash out. He has panicked, before. He knows how to deal with the tight cage around his heart. When he reaches for the key to unlock it, though, he finds that it is just out of reach, gripped by something far more malicious than he can comprehend.

Oh. Grantaire has a mole under his eye. He never noticed that before. "Enjolras," Grantaire says, and he is sure that he is going to quip, to say something silly; he would like very much for that to happen, to get a grip and demand normalcy one more. "Enjolras, you cannot ignore this, I see it in your eyes- do not take me for a fool, I see your burning clearer than any man. Give me your hand."

"No." He yanks his hand away from Grantaire's reach. He is acting like a child, he knows this. But there is just him and Grantaire, in this moment, Apollo and Icarus, and Enjolras is burning through his wings for the gods to see. He would like to do it on his own terms, not whatever _this_ is.

"You cannot pretend this is going to go away. You have to face this head-on. When have you run away from that which you do not understand? Look at me." He looks away as Grantaire speaks, but there's a hand guiding his cheek to look at Grantaire once more, firm but soft. It is not a hard guidance, and it leaves room for resistance, but he follows his gaze regardless.

"... I am-" Scared. He is scared, and he does not know how to articulate this to Grantaire without leaving himself weak. Besides, the man openly mocks his ideals, what reason does he have to believe that he will not use this as some sort of leverage later on? Oh, Enjolras, do you remember when you grew claws and you had a bout of panic over it? Funny times to look back on, _isn’t it!_

Grantaire does not mock him. He just rubs a thumb across his cheek and frowns, concern etched into his features. “You are afraid of what you do not know. I am… concerned, as well, though afraid is perhaps not the right word for that- do not give me that look, I know what I see in your eyes. This is _new_. You are _allowed_ that fear.” Grantaire is more help than hindrance, and he does not know what to think about that.

He also does not know how to properly process his emotions when presented with too many. They sit there in his mind like a slurry of feeling, too thick for the stick of his clarity to sift through and disperse, and so he tries, he _tries_ , and gets nowhere with it. He grabs Grantaire’s hand in his own, the hand he’d stuffed in his pocket and carefully, very carefully guides it away from his cheek. He swallows and takes a deep breath. “Please do not patronize me again.”

There is a flash of confusion on Grantaire’s face before he pries his own hand away, sighing in mock despondence. “Yes, yes, of course it was condescension, oh infallible one, concern is meant for mortals. Come, now. Where is your home?”

That does make him take pause. “I- are you suggesting I go home?”

“Well,” Grantaire starts, waving a hand as he turns towards the door. He gets the feeling that Grantaire’s gaze never leaves him even as he turns, though. “You cannot explain away the phenomenon going on currently, and I am sure the public would be quite invested in what their rebel leader’s hand is deciding to do, and I assume your pride would tremble too harshly to withstand such a public blow like that, no?”

He didn’t think of that. Oh, God above, he can’t let anyone know about this. There is nothing he wouldn’t do to make sure people do not know about this. There’s that panic in his chest again, and he shoves his hand back into his pocket, brows knit tight together in a scowl. “Fine. I will go home. You will make sure that nobody is to see me in such a state until the--” He struggles to find the right word for it, for once, floundering about like a fish out of water until restarting his train of thought. “The _ailment_ has solved itself. You will stay with me until then. If anyone comes to my door, you turn them away, and you will go to meetings in my stead. I will prepare a list of activities and topics for you to cover.” Turning to Grantaire, he tries to hide his frustration. Judging from the astonished, slightly hurt look on his face, he is failing to do so. “You can at least do that much without ruining the venture, correct? Or are we going to have a repeat of the last time you attempted to be of service to Les Amis?”

There is a flash of regret that comes across Grantaire’s face before he settles into cold resolve, though there is something there behind the saccharine, mockingly sweet smile that he is afraid to place. Perhaps his words were a bit too harsh. Perhaps he is being unfair to Grantaire right now.

Well, Grantaire is not the one with a clawed, fuzzy hand, is he? He gets to be snappy. He’s rattled.

Grantaire finally speaks when they’re halfway to Enjolras’s home. He sounds irritable when the words come forth. “Not everyone can be as stalwart and immovable as you, Enjolras. We are all aware that I am the failure of the ABC. There is no need to rub it in because you are having a bout of _the morbs_ over an ungodly predicament.” Were these normal circumstances, perhaps he’d feel properly cowed over the way he’s been treating Grantaire, who has shown him nothing but loyalty during this time. Instead, he just feels _vulnerable_ , cut open for the world to see, and that is the last thing he wants, especially for someone with as loose lips as Grantaire can have.

“I do not have the _morbs!_ ” He nearly shouts this, but he keeps his temperament _mostly_ in check. Enough, at least, to only raise his voice, and not shout it at the man like he can blow Grantaire’s stupidity out from under him, reveal the man he was earlier, comforting and steadfast. Now he’s just _pushing it._

Grantaire just rolls his eyes, and somehow, that feels more scathing than a remark. They keep walking. He doesn’t have the morbs. He is not _being hysterical_ , his reaction is perfectly reasonable, and he knows this.

Finally they reach the comforting shadow of his home, a modest, medium-sized two bedroom home; he's renting, not buying, from parents that he still finds himself disagreeing with on the daily. His avenue for getting the house from them completely rides on him _marrying_ , and he refuses to do so conventionally, so they've been at a standstill for quite some time. Grantaire doesn't make a remark, just sweeps his arm at the door as if to say 'you first', eyes calculating as they watch him.

He steps inside. Near immediately, some of the tension leaves his bones. 

Taking off his overcoat, he begins to speak as Grantaire walks in through the front door. "Please take your shoes off at the door, I try not to track mud in, and then once we're both situated I can figure out sleeping conditions for you, what we're going to do about this, and ground rules. Do you understand?"

The door clicks closed. "Fangs." Grantaire's response is… confusing.

"I'm sorry?" He says.

"You've-- you've grown fangs." Grantaire stumbles the words out, then points at his own mouth. Feeling at his teeth, he draws his hand back with a sharp breath of air after he pricks a finger. 

Enjolras flounders for a moment before carding his fingers through his hair, responding in turn. "God- fine. Fine. We'll _deal with it._ " He has this _under control._

The kitchen is not a comforting place, but it is where he recedes to nonetheless, rummaging around in the cupboards for something, anything to roll around in his hands. Apples are something he likes to toss around and fiddle with. It's the momentum and the comfort of feeling, not about the eating, though he eventually does. It seems he's out of apples, though, and so instead he thumps his head onto a cupboard door in defiance. Grantaire follows him in and leans on the doorway, thumbs looped into his trouser pockets.

"... Are you having fun there, Enjolras?" Grantaire's smirking through his remark and he can fucking hear it. He doesn't have to see it to know that.

"Yes," He begins, thumping his head against the cupboard once more. "The most fun. Can you not tell. I have not had this much fun since Marius vomited on me at the August meeting and I had to shed my lapels to get the smell off." That earns a snort from Grantaire, and some of that panic eases. There's a hand on his shoulder. Looking up, he meets eyes with Grantaire again. Enjolras looks away. "... You know why I cannot have anyone else knowing of this."

"Yes, yes, something about pride and vulnerability. I am well aware you do not want people to see you brought down so low. I shan’t tattle. Besides, this is the most time we have spent together, perhaps since we met, why would I miss the chance to be an eternal thorn in Apollo's side? Someone has to provide comedic relief here." Grantaire's grinning, comforting and worried, and his grip on Enjolras is steadying. He lays a clawed hand over Grantaire's.

This entire day has toppled several internal notions Enjolras was previously certain of. He thought he knew the world for what it was, and most of all thought he knew the type of man Grantaire was, but… he is perhaps wrong, with his initial assessments, of the man being nothing more than a cynical drunkard. There is kindness in him and loyalty as well, hidden underneath layers. It makes him curious, makes him crave peeling him apart piece by piece until he understands every part of Grantaire that makes him tick, to know what goes on in his brain, and he fails at banishing the curiosity when it starts to fester. 

"Yes, well, you're doing a shit job of it, 'R." Enjolras laughs, and Grantaire laughs, then too. Things feel like they'll be okay. Flexing his hand, he removes it from Grantaire's own and tries to place the warmth in his chest, fails to do so, and rummages around in his icebox this time. "Can, ah- what can you cook? I don't trust myself with the utensils right now given my unfortunate situation."

There's a lighter energy to Grantaire's step and movement as he responds in kind, cutting past Enjolras to start frisking through his cabinets. "Well, that all depends on what you've got for me to work with," he begins, grabbing spices and setting them down haphazardly on the counter beside him. "If you've beef or similar meats, I could technically produce a stew, but that would take hours to make properly, and unless you're willing to wait into the night for the end result, I'll have to go with something more short term. If you've poultry, it _looks_ like I might be able to roast something spiced, you've got quite a good selection of spices to work with-- do tell me later how you were able to get your hands on this specific kind of pepper, I so rarely see it." Enjolras is left a little lost amidst Grantaire's culinary proficiency. 

"Grantaire, I picked it up from the market. It just- it looked nice?" He flounders a little before pulling out some vegetables from the icebox. "I've managed to keep some carrots, ah, some cauliflower- tell me, what can you do with corn? God, I really do need to cook more… perhaps I can start making meals for those without, so as to avoid waste."

The cauliflower and carrots get snatched out of his hand and he scoffs. "No, don't, these are perfect. Stew it is! Start shucking corn, Sir Meow." Grantaire grins, all cheek and tongue and wit, and something warm erupts in his chest, fiery and feisty in retaliation. He grabs a corn cob. 

"Did you just call me _Sir Meow?_ " Enjolras says. He slides a claw against the grain of the corn and the husk starts sliding off with ease. He was not expecting that, hm.

Grantaire grins before replying. "Perhaps I did."

Enjolras rolls his eyes. "I am no feline. I am agile and graceful, but no claws and no fangs shall denote me as such. Your temperament escapes you."

It fails to surprise him, truly, just how easily he can settle into a rhythm amidst the bodily chaos afflicting him. Perhaps it is a testament to Grantaire's ceaseless, tireless attempts at comfort. He does not know how to sift through why it grounds him. Chooses not to is perhaps more accurate. Whatever the case, he shucks corn and Grantaire cooks, and the sun starts to set by the time their banter's finished. The smell of broth and spices fills the apartment and tickles his nose.

A moment of tension strings between the both of them, not unpleasant but strange, as he helps Grantaire clean up the mess left behind from prep and cooking. At some point, his back had begun to ache. Not particularly upsetting a feeling for sure, but with numb hands and a sore mouth and the day's events coupled with all of this, it is enough to leave him sensitive, mood prickly and thorned. 

He retreats, then, to the comfort of a chair, and picks up a book, worn with love and bookmarked from where he'd last left off. It's a historical retelling of England's initial naval arrival to the Americas. He's enamored by the whole ordeal, of how they've wrestled their freedom from the hands of tyranny, but he is a man of knowledge first, and absorbing the information comes as naturally and as comfortingly as water does flow.

There's a hand that rests on his shoulder. Jumping, he looks up at Grantaire, spoon in his hand, and dodges just in time to avoid a friendly thwap with said offending tool. "You put that down, you rascal," Enjolras starts. "You dare not soil my overshirt with broth. You overstep your bounds!"

Grantaire just grins, all playfulness and mirth, before replying. "Oh, do I, Meow? Taste. 'Tis what I was trying to get you to do." 

Rolling his eyes, he brings the wooden spoon down to his level and gives it a taste, then sighs contentedly. Though his teeth ache from the warmth, the flavor bursts into his mouth and sits on his tongue pleasantly. "... Yes, all right, you get a pass just this once."

That earns him the brightest grin from Grantaire, warm and startlingly genuine, and the man bounds back into the kitchen, exclaiming in culinary victory.

There’s something soft and surprisingly fond blooming in his chest, gentle and unfamiliar, and he is startled to find that he feels enamored by the sensation. He wants to see more of this Grantaire, this smiling, wonderful man, so different from his outward demeanor; he can still feel how radiant his smile felt upon receiving that praise which he is so often denied.

That warmth turns sharp and jealous, turning his thoughts hazy. He wants Grantaire to smile because of _him._ He smiles because of Enjolras, he smiles because he is his, he is _Enjolras’s_ friend, his, _his--_ \--

As suddenly as the eloquence had left him, he is thrust back into the present when he blinks, and Grantaire is standing in front of him, two bowls of stew balanced gently in each hand. There are spoons sticking out of each bowl. “Are you present, l- ah. Loose-lips! Yes.” That’s not what Grantaire was going to say, Enjolras can tell that, but it’s what Grantaire says. Enjolras shakes his head.

“I… yes, I am, I was momentarily overtaken by some vapors. I must have been lost in reverie.” It’s not entirely untrue. One moment he was there, and the next, overtaken by emotion, instinct. Nothing happened, sure, but that does not discredit the fact that the past few minutes are hazy, and he cannot recall the specifics of his thought.

He notes that. It’s an issue to look over during the night, and he shall keep an eye on it.

They eat in not-uncomfortable but tense silence, only broken by the sounds of their eating, and he is ashamed to admit that he eats his own bowl of stew a little more hurriedly than Grantaire does. He is hungry, he cannot help it. He helps himself to another bowl and leaves it at that, because he _knows_ food is hard to come by, so he should not squander what he has. Being fed brings about a new issue, though.

He’d rather like to stay awake, but sleep has other ideas. His eyes are heavy, and his body warm, not unpleasantly so, and he aches for nothing more than the comfort of his own bed. It has been a trying and frustrating day, filled with discoveries and developments he is upset about at _best_ , and he is sure that when he wakes, there will be something new to torment him.

A comforting hand comes to rest on his shoulder and he looks up. Grantaire smiles at him, eyes tired but firm in their loyalty, and he takes his bowl from his hand gently before momentarily retreating to the kitchen. When he returns, it’s to offer his hand for Enjolras to take. “Come, now,” Grantaire begins, voice soft. “The sun has set and our stomachs are full. There will be time to unpack and ruminate on today’s happenings later when we are both well-rested and more coherent. If we are lucky, this will have all been a frustrating dream brought on by stress on your end, and a very strange dream indeed for me, no?”

“... I suppose you have a point. I-” Enjolras hesitates mid sentence before continuing, voice softer. “... what if I wake and I am something cruel?”

“You forget yourself. A man made of such marble as you could never become uncouth at the turn of a page. That would take far crueler ministrations than claws and fangs, my friend.” Grantaire is right, Enjolras supposes, though not with the marble comment. He lets it slide for now and takes his hand, feeling the calloused, rough skin of Grantaire’s palm underneath his fingers.

“Then we shall sleep, and when I wake, we shall see if your words hold any merit. We will also have to go over a proper plan for what topics you shall cover at tomorrow’s meeting. I do not know what compelled me to schedule one meeting after the other instead of securely space them out in case the Guard decides to spring themselves upon us in surprise, but what is done is done, and we will have to take it in stride as best we can. You will try and prepare them for speaking-- what are you doing?” Enjolras stops in his tracks and watches as Grantaire, stumbling around the mess of books and papers Enjolras has around his desk, grabs for blankets.

“I am going to cocoon you in blankets and you shall emerge a victorious man, is it not obvious?” There is a mischievous glint in Grantaire’s eyes as he says this and Enjolras narrows his eyes, frowning.

“Absolutely not. You shan’t.”

Grantaire laughs, all wit and sharpness. “Ah, but I shall. _In we go!_ ”

Yelping, he retreats, but he stumbles over one of his books and would have fallen, were it not for Grantaire making good on his promise and catching him, swaddling him in one of his quilts. He yells, kicking his feet, protesting. “You shall put me down! Unhand me, you fiend, you brutish cynic! I am not a child who needs tempering, you shall not treat me as one!”

His blustering does not reach deep, and surely it shows, for Grantaire just laughs, belly-deep, and flops him down onto his mattress. Shoving his arms out of the blanket, he splutters as another blanket is tossed over him. “You are a _bad man._ A blanket-wielding drunkard. One day I shall be rid of you and the peace will be worth all of the chaos you have caused me.”

“Is that so?” The bed dips beside him and Grantaire leans back, unbuckling his pants. “Though your words hold merit, I cannot help but think that they are merely hiding the truth, here, in that you simply do not want to be in bed.”

Enjolras pauses before his face goes beet-red, and he growls, chest-deep and ragged, swatting at Grantaire with a pillow. “ _Off! The! Bed! You! Knave!_ ” Grantaire just laughs, though, elbows up in defense, and he swats him with the pillow a few more times for good measure. There are feathers on the bedspread, now.

It takes a moment for him to realize just how ridiculous this all is before he snorts, teetering on the edge of something he cannot name, refuses to name, and laughs. It’s high, hiccupy, and he finds himself laughing for a good while after the whole ordeal, Grantaire joining in. He feels less alone. Less scared, perhaps.

He also decides that he needs to reevaluate Grantaire’s place in his internal judgement, because he was _so very wrong_ with his initial placement.

"Am I banished? Have I been relocated to the pits of Tartarus for my misdeeds? Alas! I have been scorned!" Grantaire manages, before laughing once more. Shucking his overshirt and undershirt, he pulls the covers back over him and fumbles to reach for the bedside candle. Grantaire beats him to it though and snuffs out the light, pulling the covers over himself lazily.

"No, Grantaire," He says, and turns to face the wall, curling into himself just a little as if it will make the ache in his spine lessen. "You may stay."

The time passes in a small stretch before, eyelids heavy and mind heavier, sleep whispering to him, he turns to face Grantaire, restless. 

"Grantaire?" He mumbles. He gets a grunt in response. "I wanted to thank you for staying with me through this. I know I have been… _difficult_ , and for reasons beyond me you have taken that in stride and steadied me. Surely I would have lost my head on my own through this… whatever it is that is happening to me. So… thank you. You are a good friend." There is a beat of silence after that and then he's being pulled into a warm, sideways embrace, cuddled for comfort.

Mumbling the words into his chest, Granraire speaks, quiet but firm, voice trembling ever so slightly with an emotion he cannot place. "I would do many things for you. Someone must remind you that for as wild as the world may be and as much as you can work yourself up, I am always wilder and more frenzied. You are safe, and there will be ground for you if you are to stumble. Tremble no more, Orpheus."

Finally, reassured, he lets himself lean on someone else for balance, just this once, and falls asleep.

He dreams of the hunt. He dreams of being chased, of going 'round and 'round in a never-ending cycle, of being a slobbering, monstrous thing. He dreams of weeping, stilted, fragmented visions of things he used to know and things he no longer comprehends, and then, finally, blissfully, he dreams of nothing.

It's the rumble-purr that wakes him.

It rattles around him, fills the air, and he only realizes what it sounds like when he finally pries his eyes open in the morning light. It's him. The noise is coming from _him_ , deep in his chest, rough but contented, and while the shock is enough to interrupt it, he finds it continues on nonetheless. Grantaire's arms are wrapped loosely around him and the air underneath the blankets is warm, so, without reluctance, he shoves himself closer and lets himself drift again, rumbling along.

When he opens his eyes again the sun is higher, and the sound of the city drifts in from the window. His back aches miserably, a sharp, consistent ache in his spine, and when he sits up and tries to stretch it out, it only further spreads the agony. He winces. Grantaire is not in the bed. Straining to hear any sound in the house, he hears movement in the kitchen, and that odd little ball of anxiety nestling in his chest loosens some and resubmerges itself. 

There's a knock at the door. His senses become alert. Who. Who. _Unfamiliar--_

He doesn't remember stumbling to the doorway, nor does he remember leaving prickmarks in the wood underneath his hand where he gripped it, but when he recognizes the smell and the fog creeps back from his thoughts once more, he realizes who it is. He also does not enjoy the fact that he is _smelling_ things so strongly-- strongly enough that he identifies people with scents, anywho, he can tolerate the spices. Gavroche is at the door.

"I'll be just a moment!" Grantaire yells this from the kitchen and shuffles out, mug of coffee gripped in his hand, and Enjolras shoots a hand out to stop him. He's furred up to the elbow on both arms and it's only now he notices. It's golden blonde, wavy, shaggy, almost like sheep wool, but he dares not feel the texture. He resists that urge. 

"Grantaire," He whispers, and there is another knock. "It's Gavroche, turn him away, he cannot see me like this, he will worry--"

"No, he will laugh and try and pass you off as a dog to his friends, surely. He would not fear you." He doesn't get a chance to stop Grantaire properly as he opens the front door, and Gavroche comes barreling in, ragtag orphan scallywag friends in tow. Grantaire has enough proper sense to splutter and spill his coffee as children push past him, at least 7 or so, before he can close the door shut.

"-- and then I says, I knew I'd find 'im here, you see, because if there's one thing I can count on, it's me intuition! An' Grantaire here's smitten, I can seeeeeee…" He locks eyes with Gavroche.

There is one long, blissful moment of silence before the room erupts properly into chaos. There are screaming children and shouts and he is scrambling to get on top of his chair, startled, and that fog is back in full force, hammering around his heart. It is loud and there is too much and he is being pointed at. He bares his teeth.

"No! Nonono, it is okay," That sounds like Grantaire. He tries to remember what the words mean. It is. Hard. "It is all right, he is okay, we are having some difficulty figuring out the situation--"

" _That rat fuck Foley!_ I told you! I fuckin' told you, Nicholas, he was causin' trouble an' you knew it an' you sent 'im to the Musain with me to get'im out'a your god! Damned! Hair!" Gavroche's swatting at one of his friends with his hat. It's enough of a shock, as is the foul language, to settle him down some. He slowly slides down from the chair.

Enjolras tries to form words. It's still out of reach. Long thoughts are hard. Grantaire forces Gavroche and his friend apart amidst the chaos. "Language, Gavroche--"

"I told'im, Théophane! I told him you're sendin' a stupid, no-good rotten _street wizard with a complex_ to a bunch a' studded revolutionaries an'he says, he tells me- go on! Go on, you tell'im what you told me, Nicky!" Gavroche is seething. Finally, _finally_ the incoherent miasma unsticks itself from his brain as things settle, peeling back piece by piece.

"I told'im," Nick begins, hands shoved into his pockets. "That we was tired a' listenin' to Foley what always bargin' in an' bitchin's to us about how 'e's got no FRIENDS. So I says to Gav', you take'im! He wos threatenin' to turn Jean into a chicken again! It took weeks last time to get'em back to a person last time, we weren't not gonna try an' isk 'is ire like that! Ain't me fault your boss 'ere can't handle his wizardry none!"

"You… wizards are _real?_ " He grits the words out through sharp teeth and a thick tongue, and all eyes lock on him.

"Well, a'course they are. They just 'ave shit magic." Gavroche starts up again, and the chorus of children's voices starts back up again. "OI! LEMME SPEAK!" They quiet. There is a swell of pride that rises up in his chest momentarily. "Wizards're the shit magicians. They're the untrustworthy lot a' the weird world, that's the truth. Witches're come an' go, we met a real nice one once on accident after she found Ben 'ere lookin' for us a place all to sleep. Witches 'ave a code they follow an' procedures, but wizards, like Foley, all follow shit! So 'e turned you into a dog. Because he's evil."

Grantaire snorts, then sets his cup down. "So we have a curse on our hands? Is that so?"

Jutting his chin up and eyeing Grantaire sullenly, Gavroche nods once, then looks over at Enjolras. He feels scrutinized. His back fucking _hurts._ "Well, I ain't the magic expert, here, that'd be Charlotte." Turning his attention to the children, he watches as one of them, wearing a tattered, brown ugly scarf, clears their throat, stepping forward. "He'll figure it out! 'E says his mom was a witch, even though we know 'e's full a' shit."

Charlotte extends his hand. He bends down a little to shake said hand and his chin is yanked down by a pudgy hand, drawing a yelp out from him. His mouth yanked open and probing fingers inspect his teeth, ears, and eyes before he yanks himself back, growling deep in his chest. He coughs the growl away, of course. He shouldn't be able to do that, not at all.

"Does he have the morbs?" Charlotte asks, and Grantaire laughs. The rest of the gaggle of children laugh as well and he stands up straight, scowling. Placing his hands on his hips with a sigh, he rubs at his back.

" _No._ I do not have the _morbs._ I am also not… I'm a person, okay? A human!" Charlotte looks less than impressed with his outburst and extends his hand again. Offering his own, he watches as the child inspects his claws, then the fur. Charlotte takes pause when he flips over his hand to palm, though.

"... Here." His palm is tapped. "Point of curse. What did he say before casting?" Charlotte asks, eyes attentive and sharp. Enjolras flounders for a moment.

"Didn'e call 'Jolras pretty or somethin'? We all know Foley's shit about his looks. Gets all bent when pretty girls don't look his way." A firm nod from Nick and another child after Gavroche speaks.

"Well- yes," Enjolras begins, "Technically. I didn't pay it much mind, but ruminating, he fixated on that specific ideal before shaking my hand. I thought he'd just been trying to poke at me. I know I'm listened to for more than my looks." He hopes so, anywho. Most days he makes peace with it.

Charlotte frowns. "Hand me my magic sack, Gavroche." Gavroche rolls his eyes and mutters something about 'dodgy disastrous spices', but acquiesces and hands over a stained, brown rucksack. Upon retrieval of said sack, Charlotte digs around arm-deep for a moment or two before pulling out a handful of what looks to be dust. It's smeared all over his hand and he sighs.

He'd begun to open his mouth to ask if this all was necessary when his hand sparks. Yelping, he draws it back, but the sparks linger, popping off of his palm. There, inscribing itself into his hands and the edges of his arms, runes appear fluidly, unrecognizable and foreign. They glow a dark red, stark against his pale skin. "Shit! What did you do--"

"Not me. Faurley. Not Foley, Gavroche just can't pronounce his name right." Gavroche yells. There's bickering amongst the other children that pipes up as Charlotte grabs his hand again, and he tunes out Grantaire joining in. "You've been hit with a surprisingly strong curse. My mom taught me about these before she passed. There are conditions that have to be met in order for the curse to lift. If he was focused on your looks, it might be that you will turn into something ugly and monstrous unless that condition is met." Ice floods through his blood as the words are spoken. "Or that you'll turn into a dog. Faurley has a thing for turning people into animals when they anger him. We ward him off with crosses and holy objects of importance where we rest, but he is, unfortunately, very strong and very rude. I think he crawled from Hell just to menace the slums." His hand is pat once, the runes disappear along with the glow, and Charlotte steps back.

"Can they stay?" Grantaire is giving him his best puppy eyed face as he speaks. He has very big, blue eyes. Of course, Enjolras is still processing, digesting this damning information, so he just nods once and sits, skin prickling.

He aches and he is so tired and confusion nags at the back of his mind. He has been thrust into a world which knows no reason and he is terrified of the end result. A hand flex. 

"... You know what-- Enjolras! Tell me your favorite food." The question takes him aback and brings him back to his thoughts. He blinks slowly.

"Uh… I- ah. Chicken? Baked chicken." Well-seasoned baked chicken like his mother used to have the cooks make. She said it was made with love. He knew better, but the sentiment warmed him as a child nonetheless. He casts aside the bureaucratic memory and nods. "Chicken."

"Then I shall get ingredients and food for you for chicken so as to wipe that miasmic frown off of your face! Our spirits shall be high as they can possibly be in the face of this disaster!" Clapping his hand, Grantaire struts over to the door, grabbing his coat. "Ye merry band of devilish, tiny thieves, I have a proposition for you. What say you to a paid babysit?"

The children direct their attention to Grantaire near immediately, watchful and silent. Gavroche slaps his hands on his hips and levels Grantaire with a passive glare. "Get on with it, then, stinkman."

"Make sure Enjolras is well cared for in my absence and that he does not worry himself into a tizzy, and you shall each get five pence- and before you ask, I have that much by selling uncouth children like you to the guard for prison food. Do we have a deal?" Grantaire is full of shit, but his coin purse is full, that at least he knows is a truth. 

"I do not need to be babysat--" He retorts, but Gavroche holds up a hand, sniffing derisively.

"Whole an' in one piece I'd 'appily do free of charge. Entertained an' distracted though, you're smart to pay us fer that. Make it six pence and we'll cook dinner for ya!" Gavroche grins a gap-toothed smile, cheeky and sly.

"Six and you don't mention this to Joly or Bossuet." Gavroche nods and holds out his hand, and Grantaire deposits coins into the boy's hand. Six for him and five for each of the seven children left. The man is… surprisingly philanthropic, in a sense, and it catches Enjolras off guard. 6 pence is not a lot by any means, but it is enough to squirrel away in hard times, and that is enough to make it far more worth what it's being given for. It's kind.

"Deal! Boys an' Lucille, hogtie 'em! It's time to hair braid!" Yelping, he jumps the couch as a gaggle of children burst upon him, intent on restraining him. One has obtained a hairbrush from one of his drawers and another is digging around his cabinets for ribbons. 

"I'll keep the ABC entertained myself, Enjolras, you need not worry! We shall speak of important things and I shall let them know you are faring well! Good luck!" Grantaire starts out the door, donning his coat.

Enjolras exclaims, "Grantaire, you sellout!" The door is shut before the shout is heard, though, and he is barreled to the ground by a rowdy pack of street rats. 

The day passes without much aplomb. He navigates this band of bastards well enough, or at least he'd like to think so. Charlotte, at some point, conjures light from nothing, and he finds himself enamored with the whole ordeal.

They… admittedly do a very good job in distracting him when he sprouts a tail. He'd damn near started to cry from it all and they'd stormed over with books, demanding he read them. Gavroche spearheaded the whole thing.

It's how he finds himself in a pile of kids clamoring to hear him read Jane Austen literature. Pride and Prejudice is a new but wonderful piece of literature. One of the children in particular is invested in the story and interrupts every now and then to ask what a word means, and he replies accordingly.

They're just children, he is reminded once more, young adults in a cruel world with a crueler upbringing, and when the chance arises they are able to be children once more; it is unfair that they must suffer for the royal and greedy. They've done nothing to deserve it.

Turning the page, he blinks and tries to parse through the words on the next page, squinting. That fog of inarticulancy and confusion is creeping back upon him. He tries desperately to stave it off, to ground himself, but it envelops him entirely, and thoughts become short, stutter, like rusted clockwork.

Charlotte has formed another light orb. It's very bright. He does like it.

It's very _fast_ , though. He cannot catch it. He tries, he tries, he tries to catch it, out of reach, trytrytry--

He hits the wall. The children laugh. Bastards. Rubbing at his face, he bristles. Bastards. Rude children. His feet hurt. Gavroche says something, but he doesn't connect the words to specific meaning. Instead, Gavroche gets nudged. He's family.

Annoying, but family.

He knows who is about to open the door before it's opened. He can smell it. Grantaire, Grantaire, he knows him, Grantaire! Oh, he enjoys Grantaire. Wonderful man. Lovely blue eyes. Such nice smells. The door opens and he vaults himself at Grantaire by using the chair as a springboard, cheering.

"Shit! _Bad_ Enjolras! Sorry, we thought'e was just havin' the vapors, 'e was readin' Jane Austen an' then went all fuzzy!!" He peers down at Grantaire from where he’d barrelled the man down, tail wagging. He's frowning. The door is open. Interesting smells outside.

"Shit, Enjolras, look at me, hey- look down at me. Come on." There is a hand on his face. His Grantaire's hand. Enjolras blinks. "Look me in the eyes. Speak to me-- Gavroche, kids, close the door, grab groceries please--" 

The kids rush past. He ignores them in favor of laying down on top of Grantaire. He feels worried. Why is Grantaire sad? He smells it strong and thick, hanging off of the man in waves. Worry and sadness. There's a thumb stroking his cheek.

"Enjolras, _speak_ to me. You gave me the same look last night. _Please,_ love." He thinks while Grantaire speaks, voice hushed, quiet.

He was called love.

It resonates deep enough that it shakes the foundation of the fog in his mind and something brittle cracks; it clears enough for him to furrow his brows, realization dawning on him. ".... Oh. Oh--"

Scrambling off of Grantaire, he wrings his hands and sits upright, arms shaking. "There you are." Grantaire wheezes out, sitting up slowly. "I was afraid I'd lost you. Where you go I will almost certainly always follow, but there I cannot be. Where were you, my Apollo?"

The door firmly closed and the groceries being haphazardly deposited into the kitchen, he tries to shake the lingering haze from his mind. "I don't-- I. I was. I was reading Jane Austen. I remember reading to the children--"

Grantaire looks somewhere behind him before pointing. "Was it the tail?" He looks down. It's fluffed out after his startle and he drags a claw over the fur to try and get it to lay flat. He feels numb, wrung dry. 

"No. I. It's." He struggles to find a way to describe the feeling. For once, he has little words. It is _terrifying._ “I. Was. It was like--”

“It’s all right, take your time.” Gently, so gently he’s left smitten by the care, he’s guided back up and onto the unfortunately scratched up chair. 

He takes a moment to collect himself. There’s a crash in the kitchen and bickering leaks out from the doorway. Grantaire yells something, not a word, more of an exclamation, and the bickering quietens. “... it- have you ever." He flounders for a moment or two. "When you are drunk, so drunk that it feels like you're- lost. Have you ever been without words? Without thought? Like- like being underwater. There's sound and light and vision, but it isn't-- it's not the _same._ It does not filter the same way. I couldn't, I could not, just, force myself to _think normally_ , I lost my words, Grantaire, I could have hurt you--"

There are hands on his cheek and then, softly, Grantaire bumps his forehead against his own. Their faces are impossibly close. "Then we shall figure out what causes this lapse in judgement and navigate accordingly. I know you are scared. It is an upsetting thing, to lose yourself, but we will not navigate alone."

He takes a deep breath. There is warmth nestled in his chest and he realizes abruptly that Grantaire smells like chestnuts. It's a faint thing, overpowered by whiskey and sweat and dirt, but there is the underlying, unmistakable smell of chestnuts if he picks everything apart well enough. It's nice. "... All right. Damn you for hiding this hidden talent underneath the guise of uncaring, you are a better man than you give yourself credit for. Where did you learn such manners, hm?"

"My father!" Grantaire's laugh after the brash remark is harsh. Unkind. A sore subject, then. Patting him on the shoulder, Enjolras stands, stumbling. He feels off balance, like his feet are standing on shaking stone, and when he readjusts his stance to try and get a better hold, pain jolts through his ankles. 

"God damn it--" Grantaire's arm is around his waist in seconds. He doesn't crumple, but he does sit back into the chair reluctantly, rubbing at his feet. He bends down.

Of course, his shirt chooses that moment to split down his back, fur bursting forth. Cheeks turning bright red, he buries his face in his hands and groans. "They're going to eat me alive, Grantaire. They'll storm in and demand to braid it all and I think I might die. Put me out of my misery. Let me die on the battlefield for valor instead of the slow, torturous death that awaits." He's being needlessly, stupidly dramatic and he knows this, but Grantaire is not the only one who can joke, and he desperately needs the distraction.

"No they shan't." Clapping a hand on his shoulder, Grantaire stands back up straight and pokes himself into the kitchen. "Good evening, tiny chefs, what have we-- HEY. Put the good onions down, I'm using those tonight, bastards--" He doesn't get to witness what all goes down in the kitchen, but he hears it just as well, and it brings a smile to his face. 

Mentally, he catalogues the things he's learned about Grantaire in the passing days. He is caring, considerate, and good with children, and exceedingly patient, though not with anyone but him, it seems. Not contradictory necessarily of the man he's used to dealing with, but it sheds him in a new light. He is unused to feeling attachment of this nature to a friend. It feels alien, new to him, a possessive kind of craving to understand every flavor Grantaire has to offer, and he doesn't know if he's felt something like this before.

If he ruminates hard enough, he remembers a boy in his school years, dark haired and temperamental. He remembers painting foul words on the wall and getting punished for bad behaviour and stealing kisses behind the tree that rested beside the brick building. He felt something similar then, maybe.

He'd like to not understand anymore. Things are far more simpler if he does not get the creeping, dawning realization that he adores this man more than a friend might.

God fucking damn it all.

Gavroche's friends all barrel out of the kitchen and force their way out of the house, clamoring around a bag of food. Grantaire halfheartedly chases them, waving a spoon, and rests his hands on his hips after all's said and done, closing the door after. "They swiped some of your food. I wasn't quick enough to stop them, though I cannot fault them much. Growing boys and girls need some sort of greenery in their diet, lest they stay stumpy and gnarled!"

"It's fine." He waves Grantaire off and, using the chair for leverage, attempts to stand again. He's still off balance, but he manages it this time. He doesn't want to look down to figure out what the problem is. He knows it's cowardly, but he also knows exactly what he'll see, because he can wiggle his toes in what feels uncomfortably flexible ways and his ankles ache. So he simply won't look.

"Gavroche is staying to help keep an eye out. He also insists on trying to cook. Do not tell him I am teaching him, then he will not listen, yes?" Grantaire reaches out, then hesitates, suddenly unsure in his movements. He can feel a difference in emotion in the air. He doesn't quite know how, but the miasma of emotion that Grantaire so often visibly represses feels almost tangible to him, salty on the tongue and bitter in the back of his throat. He closes the distance and, clumsily, walks over to clap a hand on his shoulder. 

"Grantaire, you could not teach a mouse to crawl out of a wet sock, I am sure Gavroche will not think that's your intent. I care for you but truly, you were not given God's silver tongue when it comes to explanations." That earns him a laugh, colorful at the edges and full of mirth.

Slinging an arm around Enjolras's shoulder, Grantaire steers him into the kitchen. "Is that so! We shall see about that, foxtrot, we shall see!" 

The stove is lit and Gavroche is stirring around various vegetables in a saucepan he did not know he had. On another part of the stove, chicken sears, and there are apples set out next to a small stack of plates. He is struck by the urge to nestle himself in the crook of Grantaire's arm. He does not.

This feels disgustingly domestic. Tooth-rotting, even, were it not for his own pressing issues.

Tail wagging, he goes to try and grab one of the vegetables out of the pan while Gabroche isn't looking, impatient, and he gets his hand smacked away for it. "Oi! You think you're so smart, don'cha! Outta the kitchen, I'm cookin' 'ere!"

One affronted sigh and a slink back into the resting area later and he's reclining himself onto the chair once more, silent and pensive. Grantaire is striking up a conversation with Gavroche in the kitchen again. He still aches and his head still hurts, background noise against granite, nails on wire; if he closes his eyes, he feels like moss, floaty and strewn about. He's so tired.

He is terrified of falling asleep again. He could wake up something other than himself.

Rest is allowed, though, so he does for a while, curled up in the chair, until there's the feeling of something warm and heavy being pulled over him. Opening his eyes, he looks up. Grantaire'd been dragging a blanket over him. "Good evening, sleeping beauty."

"You flatter me." It's deadpan in delivery when he says it. Rubbing at his eyes, he tries to clear the fog, and succeeds, for the most part. It clings to the edges of his mind, though. "Dinner? I do apologize for not attempting to help--"

"Enjolras, you're not lifting a finger right now in your state. Dinner is ready, no worries here. Gavroche left a little while ago. He said something about keeping his friends in line, which I am inclined to agree with." Watching Grantaire retreat into the kitchen momentarily, his mind lingers on a question.

"Why did he seek you out like that? Gavroche is… he's quite independent, it struck me as odd." Pausing in the doorway with two plates in hand, Grantaire sighs.

"I let him stay in my lodgings from time to time." Setting the plate down, Grantaire takes a seat in the next available piece of furniture and begins to eat. "He is a proud young man, therefore I did not strike the idea myself, merely let him know if he needed safety it was available; far be it from me to deny someone the temptation of a warm bed and a full belly. He…" Enjolras takes a bite of his own food and tucks his legs close, listening intently. "He reminds me of myself when I was much younger. Scrappy, loud, opinionated."

Enjolras laughs."You? Opinionated? That I can believe, but you make it sound as if you made well to tell the rest of the world that." 

Grantaire frowns. "Yes, Enjolras, opinionated. I do not share your sentiments nor your voices, but I share your ideals, and once upon a time a much younger and more naive me thought it pertinent to try and change the minds of those around me like you try to." 

Something dark stirs back to life in the pit of his stomach and he scarfs down his food, glowering. "And isn't that _easy_ for you to say."

"We are not having this conversation right now, Enjolras, not like this. Not when you're-" Grantaire is interrupted before he can continue.

"Like what?" He sets his plate down on the chair's arm and stands up, struggling to balance. "A fucking monster? Are you going to obfuscate with that as your excuse this time, that there is no room for argument on your cowardice and neutrality because I am unavailable to point it out? An invalid?"

"I never _said_ that, Enjolras, I simply know how these conversations go and it will only end in you getting angry and me going home! Do not start this right now, _please_." Grantaire stands as well, plate of food half-eaten, left abandoned.

He balls his hands into fists and continues on. "No. We are having this conversation, most importantly now than later. You have proven to me that you are _very_ capable of caring when it matters, that you can take care with the ideals you hold close, that you are perfectly able of action when you so choose it; what in God's name stops you from committing yourself fully to our cause when you yourself have just admitted to me you share the same ideals?!"

"Because it will get you all _killed_ , Enjolras, how can you not see that?!" The outburst takes him aback. Grantaire looks frustrated and smells even more so. "You test the Guardsmen and the police constantly with your protestations! How many times have they gotten away from you as well, turned to riots, disquiet? They wait with bated breath for you to slip up so they may bathe the streets in all of your blood and I cannot, I cannot give that to you, not like that, I am a _coward_ and you know this! I would lay down my life for you, it has always been for you that I stay and listen and entertain the notion, but I cannot change things myself! I have _tried!_ I have waded through the trials of man and emerged broken and miserable and I cannot sit through it all again, human nature cannot be denied!"

" _Cowardly._ That is perhaps one of the few things you are _correct_ about, if you have done this once before, if you have tried to convince others of the very same, then you KNOW how important it is! I am an idealist, this is true," He starts towards Grantaire, who takes a step back. "I have heard the arguments tossed about in favor of the monarchy, change be damned, you represent nothing but _damnation_ at the hands of indifference! We are not given the choice to stand and watch as the world becomes crueler around us! We take the flames we are given and preserve them, we _do not stomp out the ashes_!" 

He is seething, blinding, mad rage filling up his insides, rattling his core, and he realizes, in this moment, that this is not him; that the growl that has been building in his chest and threatening to split him apart rib by rib, it is not him, it is something cruel and slobbering and monstrous. It is not his anger, not this intensity. His feelings are justified, surely, but he is not--

He is not _cruel._

"Then stoke them, but I will not lay my life for your triumvirate, I will not do as they ask! If you demand it, I will be there for you, but they alone cannot change the minds of men and women unjustly wronged for _generations_ , Enjolras! We are _not having this conversation!_ Not anymore! Please!" There is fog in his mind and his claws itch. He scrambles to keep himself together amidst the miasma of negativity flooding him.

Taking another step towards Grantaire, he unballs his fists. Grantaire takes another step back.

"... Enjolras?" 

He growls. This is his friend. He is… he cannot lose himself to this, not now, not when he threatens to topple amidst the sea of terror, he is not a monster, _he has never been so angry--_ "I am sorry, I should not have yelled. This is not the Musain and our friends are not here to mediate, I pushed my bounds too far. You can scathe if you so please to."

He loses his grip. A blink, and there is the sound of plaster and wall cracking and laboured breathing. He is hunched, pinning Grantaire to the wall, claws sharp. He smells fear. There is anger.

He smells _fear._ "Enjolras--" Grantaire's reply is cut short. He snarls. His thumb slips and then, then-- the smell of blood, and he is brought back to reality, present, thoughts sharp, too jagged.

They burn him. He is Icarus and his wings have crumbled to wax and dust.

Letting go of Grantaire and scrambling back in one jerky movement, he clasps one hand over his mouth to stop the whine in his throat from escaping and locks himself in place, arms shaking. He is still so _fucking_ angry, but there is metal in the air and it makes him focus. Grantaire's slumped back down on the ground, wheezing, gasping for air and recovering from the violence, and blood drips down steadily from a clean, semi-deep cut on his cheek. It's thin, not large but long enough to scar, and he shakes.

"... I- I did not. I." He is turning into a monster. He is terrible, what has he done-- "I did not mean to. I. Grantaire, let me-" He moves towards Grantaire and, instinctually, the man flinches.

He has ruined things. He has scarred the cynic and he has paid for his insolence. What has he _done?_

"No, no, it, I know. Give me. One moment." Grantaire bites out, still rubbing at his throat. There are a few more moments that pass as he catches his breath, as Enjolras stands there, frozen, until finally, carefully, Grantaire leverages himself into a standing position. The wall rains debris down ever so slightly behind him.

"I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry, I don't, that wasn't what I was trying to do, I-" He is left speechless, still trembling in the wake of something much larger than him. He struggles to hold the glass in it's proverbial bag, terrified the cloth will rip and set free shards around him. He takes a step away from Grantaire.

"Breathe, Apollo." That is the wrong thing to say. He is no Apollo.

"Do not call me that! Apollo would not strike Icarus, he would not cleave clay in two so carelessly--" He covers his face, shame flooding through him. What kind of a leader is he? What man-made monstrosity has he become?

There are strong hands wrapped around him then, pulling him close, a hushed voice near his face; he feels tears, hot and wet and burning, flood his eyes. He clings to Grantaire and sobs. There is apology after apology, choking him with the force of his regret, and he clings, but he does not dig his claws in, because that would be yet another tally against his moral ministrations. He has to stay grounded. He is still angry, but it isn't at Grantaire, anymore. He is angry at himself.

"I am wet clay. Any cuts will heal. It is okay, Enjolras, I know you did not mean it. I did not mean to flinch, all right?" Grantaire's got his cheek on his shoulder and he takes the close proximity in stride.

"I cut you. I cut your face, Théo, look at me, is it deep? Do you need to fetch a doctor, I did not mean to, you, you were right when you said we should not argue, I- I do not know what came over me. Please tell me you are all right. Mean it. Swear to me." When did he become taller than Grantaire? 

"I am fine. Look, see, it will heal, it is not deep. Breathe." Grantaire pulls back to grab his hand and clasp it tight. There's blood on his fur and he shakes. "Look at me. Accidents happen. You are not yourself right now, I am not blaming you, could never blame you- it will be okay. I will clean up. Okay?" It's not okay, he won't forgive himself for this, but there's still fog prickling at the back of his mind and he fears it's advances, so he nods. 

"Okay." Enjolras grits out. "Okay, okay, it- I'll make us. Tea. You always like whiskey in yours, right, I always see you putting whiskey or something strong in your drinks when it's absent--"

Grantaire pauses, then looks over to the kitchen. “Yes, I, ah, I regularly do so, will put spirits in my drinks, but you do not have to do that for me, Enjolras. Look at me.”

“Jules. It-- you may call me Jules, if you so please to.” Enjolras stumbles the words out, heart hammering in his chest, and he storms over to the kitchen. He knows Grantaire’s following him by the sound of footsteps and the scent he leaves behind, still heavy with fear.

“... Jules is a wonderful name-- augh!” Enjolras shoves a rag into Grantaire’s face and starts dabbing at the cut. Grantaire, of course, decides to pull his hand away. “Stop it. Jules, _listen_ to me. You are not yourself right now, have not been yourself for two days, and you cannot fight against magic that thrives off of unrest. Look at me, take a deep breath to do so. Truly look.”

He looks. It’s with trepidation and worry, but he looks. 

Grantaire is… he has bags under his eyes, but those are from things other than this, that he knows. The cut is still bleeding, perhaps not as earnestly, and his eyes are not haunted, not accusatory, simply worried, cast in the stress lines forming around his mouth and nose. He is not afraid of Enjolras. Desperately repeating that to himself, he lets his mind believe it, then pulls Grantaire close again.

“I am so, so sorry. I-- you know I worry. I just--”

“I know.” Grantaire mumbles. “I know, Jules, but you cannot keep going like this. You worry like you are a thirsting man in a desert, it comes naturally to you, but this is one instance where worrying will do no good at all. Take a deep breath.”

He breathes, and though he feels he is on slippery ground, so to speak, he stays upright. He regrounds himself. “... what if- what if it happens again, I could hurt you. Promise me that you won’t let me hurt you, please. That if I slip back where you cannot reach me, if I do not make it past this wall, that you will defend yourself. Do not let me hurt you. This is not me asking, this is, this is _important._ ”

“I swear to you. Tea time.” It’s a swift subject change from Grantaire and he’s reluctant not to linger, to keep pressing the matter, but his heart is a hummingbird and he will fly off if he keeps panicking, so he lets it happen. They make tea. It tastes bitter in his throat and he wonders if Grantaire put whiskey in his cup, too. He wouldn’t mind right now.

If he finds things to focus on, he’s able to keep the fog at bay. He’s not hungry (he is, he’s lying to himself, if only for the control), so instead he paces, talks with Grantaire until the sun finally dips below the horizon, and he sleeps. 

He dreams in flashes. He dreams of the hunt. He dreams of blood, of grief, he dreams he is not himself, and when he wakes, it is a chore to think.

He is curled up next to Grantaire. His head is on his stomach, and he can feel the rise and fall of his chest as he slumbers. There is warmth in his chest.

 _His_ , his mind supplies, this is _his_.

Distantly, he feels upset. It doesn’t connect well. He lets it go and lets out a deep breath, then falls back asleep.

At some point, Grantaire gets up. It wakes him up, so he gets up too. Trying to walk is hard, so he doesn’t bother, walks on all fours instead, and he follows. At another point, Grantaire is in the kitchen. He tries to shove into a cabinet and gets pulled out.

He wants in. That’s unfair. There’s a chiding tone, worry, and he sniffs it away. He smells amusement. He laughs. Yes! That is what he wanted.

That.

That is.

He comes back to himself in a shock and scrambles away. For the first time all morning, he is alert, and he is terrified. How long, he wonders, how long was he stuck like that, how long was he content in his ignorance? What will happen if he is unable to recognize even the most base parts of himself?

Someone’s saying his name. He grips the counter hard and feels his nails dig into the wood, and finally, finally forces himself to focus.

“-- olras! Okay, okay, breathe, it’s okay--” Grantaire is holding his face so tenderly. He looks down at him. He’s gotten taller than the man, and it somehow feels wrong. He’s not supposed to be taller than Grantaire.

“I.” He struggles for words. “I wasn’t. What were we doing--”

“We were making breakfast. It took a bit, I’m sorry, it’s not past noon, that much I know. I’d tried to grab your attention early after waking but you wouldn’t budge. I-- Enjolras, I need to know what grounds you. What brings you back to self awareness, please, give me that much so I can help.” Grantaire sounds helpless, lost, and he echoes the feeling.

He feels like a monster. He’s _becoming_ a monster, he thinks.

“...well,” He thinks about it, then undigs his nails from the counter, wincing at the claw marks they leave. “I… I don’t really know. When-- when you called me love. It’s so _silly_ that that’s what sticks out to me, but I’d been going.” He makes a wavy hand motion. “Fuzzy. You called me love, and it… I don’t know what resonated,” Yes, he does, but he won’t admit it. “But it put me back in place. It set my mind back aloft in the sea it’d made.”

“... you need me to call you affectations?” Grantaire at least has enough humor left in him to sound vaguely bemused, and he flushes slightly, turning away.

“No! That’s not what I was trying to express.” Grantaire lets go of his face, then, and he sighs, looking back.

“... it was the emotion tied to it, wasn’t it? The-- the notion of feeling loved. We don’t tell you enough, do we?” Grantaire says.

“You tell me plenty. All of you. Well- not you specifically, I, ah…” Actually… he can’t actually think of a specific moment recently where he’s been affirmed his relationships with the rest of the Les Amis is not simply one-sided. That he’s cared for. Sure, they act as if he is important, they comment on his being all the time, make it known they’re there for him, but they’re empty words, to a certain point, he feels, placances in a house of lies. Is he truly loved? Or is he merely tolerated for a means to an end?

It is something he’d resigned himself to, let carve a bitter hole inside his chest, but now, that hole just aches, fills with resentment.

“We do not, Enjolras. That is no fault of yours. We should tell you more. You are loved and cherished.” He is hugged after that, and his hands shake. He wants to hug back.

He does not.

Taking a deep breath, Enjolras makes an attempt to recollect himself and rummages through the cupboards, pulling out a box of tea. “I am still making you tea. It’s the least I can do.”

“For the love of-- Enjolras, go sit down. It is okay. I will clean myself up, we will make lunch, and we will figure this out.” The tea’s grabbed from his claws and set back down onto the counter, and he fights with himself.

Ultimately, he loses the internal battle and goes to rest in the chair in the other room, nerves wracked. He can still smell blood sharp in his nose, and it tears him apart piece by piece. What kind of a mongrel is he, one who would so easily let himself slip and tear through those he calls his friends; Considers more than a friend, perhaps, holds too close to his heart nestled in a space where he thought only Patria would reside, a different kind of flame he is unaccustomed to. Pity that it be Grantaire, pity that it be someone he cannot offer himself to, that it would be someone so distanced from his own alignments-- though that is not entirely accurate, either.

Unaligned would never be the right term. Unenlightened? Unmotivated? Those are closer, but he finds himself missing the mark yet again. Everything he knew about the man has been thrown slightly askew, cast in a different light, and he doesn’t know what to do anymore. Control has been wrested from him unceremoniously, abruptly and he is left adrift, sinking deeper and deeper into unknowing with each passing moment.

He prays that he is left in a good light if he is to fall for good.

It feels like only a minute when Grantaire finally steps back into the living room, Enjolras snapping his attention back to him without a second’s passing, and he waits. The cut’s been cleaned, it looks like the blood has been wiped away, though the tight line of irritation set in the lines near his mouth tells Enjolras all he needs to know about whether or not the pain has receded. “Come here.”

Grantaire obliges and flops down onto him with a groan. He pulls him close. “See? All better. A miracle upon God, surely.”

There is a foreign smell and a knock at the door and he growls, senses dulling without warning, and pulls Grantaire closer still. Grantaire goes still. Another knock. He smells, opens his mouth, tries to get a grip.

It smells like… antiseptic. Worry, fear, like salt, but roses, too. _Joly_ , his mind helpfully provides. Oh. He… he knows Joly. “Are you there, Enjolras? Grantaire mentioned you’d been feeling under the weather and I thought that since you hadn’t shown your face yet, it would do well to make sure you were faring well! I’ll not come in unless you’re willing to put up with a quarantine, though, you know how I feel about these sorts of things!”

The words lose most meaning for him beyond ‘come inside’, which he cannot have. That’s not allowed. Not. Not like this. He continues to growl. Grantaire pats at him, so he lets go. “Joly, really not the, ah, not the best time!” Grantaire says.

“Is he that ill? Is it something more serious, Grantaire? Please don’t tell me it’s polio. Oh, Gods above, what if he’s taken ill with dysentery--” Joly rattles the doorknob. He lumbers up off of the chair and takes a step closer to the door. Not allowed in. That’s the rule. Not like this.

“No! It’s-- I believe it’s just a 24 hour sort of thing. He’s just feeling the vapors, you know how he gets during the later months. We know he pretends he is well, but you have told him many times, no?” The doorknob stops rattling as Grantaire speaks. He smells panic. It’s coming from Grantaire. Why does he smell like panic? “Besides, if I’m in here, and he’s contagious, and I have it handled, do you truly think it well to expose yourself to such a thing?”

There’s the sharp scent of worry and peaches. Joly does not like sick. Getting sick. That’s… that sounds right. “Oh,” He hears Joly say, “Oh, dear, yes, you’re right. Those… ah, those kinds of illnesses do tend to pass quite quickly. They hit him hard but quickly. I remember-- last year he had the gall to get half of the Les Amis sick, I shall not have another repeat. God forbid we all be in working order. I fear I might have gotten too close as is behind this door, we do not know if viruses can travel between wood--”

“Joly, the door is proper protection enough. Go. Let them know Enjolras has merely run himself into the ground again, and that he shall be whole. He is well taken care of with me.” Grantaire responds, hands shaking. He nudges Grantaire so his hand is on top of his head. Nice feeling. Grounding. He stops growling.

“... if you’re sure. Make sure he gets plenty of bedrest, you know how he gets! If his condition worsens, take him to a doctor, keep me updated! I must go ensure I’m not ill myself…” He listens to Joly’s voice fade, listens to him stroll away, and finally, finally, he settles down.

Things still fuzz. He is sad about this. He cannot pinpoint why. Grantaire scratches behind an ear and sighs, and he leans into the pets.

“... what are we going to do, Jules? God…” He watches as Grantaire rubs at his face. Why would he do that? Hands are for pets. Hands are for food. He puts his hands up on Grantaire’s chest and shoves himself upright. They both topple to the ground.

“Ack-- Jules, down, love, come on, now. Are… You’re with me, right? Are you with me?” Grantaire trails off at the end then grabs his face by the cheeks. He grins toothily.

Grantaire sighs. “Okay. That’s… no, that’s all right. It’s okay. You’re just hungry, we’ll make it through the storm and dry you off after the fact.” He gets his cheeks pat. He likes that feeling. Wonderful. Lovely. Grantaire stops at some point, though, and he is sadder for it.

There is kitchen movement. He does not keep track of everything. There is just… movement, so he sniffs around. Grantaire works, makes something, and he perks up. Smells like food. He devours it ravenously and, to Grantaire’s credit, some of that fog clears. Not enough to form words, though.

He hovers for the rest of the day. At some point, he’s lucid enough to thank Grantaire, a quiet, dissonant thank you, disconnected from his mind and slipping out of his mouth, but he is quick to slip back under. 

Snapshots of the day stand out to him. At some point, he drops a cup, and the shock of the noise drags him back to reality. Grantaire is saying something, but he doesn't linger long enough to understand what the words mean, and things calm back down. Another point in the day he wakes up to find himself curled up around Grantaire in the chair, watching him read through a book quietly. He has one hand resting in Enjolras' hair and he feels content.

It's night time when things finally reach a head. He paws at the window. Grantaire is steering him away and he whines. He says something, but the words don't connect. Increasingly frantic and worried, Grantaire cups his face and looks him in the eye. He licks at his face. His friend.

Grantaire pulls back and he sits, resting on his hind legs, confused. Grantaire just… keeps on _talking_ , and he finds himself unable to follow. It makes him sad. Why? He tries to follow. After a moment or two, the words stop garbling, but don't make much more sense than that.

"-- please, I just, you've been like this all day, I need you to give me some sort of sign, Enjolras, it takes two to cooperate and I cannot lose you to this--" There are hands gripping the fur on his neck and he looks down. Grantaire smells like sorrow, like grief. He is crying. That… he should not be crying. That's silly.

" _Please._ I do not ask you for much. I have never asked for more than I can have, but this, you have, there are people that _need you_ , Gavroche was worried when he came to visit earlier. If not for me, for him, for your triumvirate, give me _something_ to work with, Jules." He snorts, then nudges at Grantaire. He should stop crying. It does nobody any good. Unproductive, his mind supplies.

Grantaire laughs, but it holds no joy. He sounds sad. He jolts, and Grantaire buries his face into his neck, shaking. He realizes, after a moment, that he is not shaking, but he is sobbing, quiet, gasping heaves. He pats at Grantaire's back with a claw. That is what makes people stop crying, right?

"I love you, Jules, do not make me say it to an empty husk, please come back to me. I have always done what I do for you, I cannot weather this without you by my side. _Please, God,_ come back to me."

Enjolras stops. His hair stands on end. _I love you. I love you._ Things slowly start to piece themselves together, a pathwork, threadbare and full of holes, but intact. His hand twitches, and he rests it on top of Grantaire's back, fighting for cognizance. _I love you._

"... you--" He chokes the word out, clears his throat, and tries again. Grantaire freezes. "You love me?"

There's a wet chuckle underneath him and Grantaire nods. "Of course I do. Why would I not? Terrified as I am to admit it to your face, I have loved you since first I heard you speak. You stand as a pillar of fire, a blazing rod of justice, and from the moment your frustration and protestations reached my ears, I knew it would be you I laid my life down for. It was always you, Jules, you who the world has yet to beat down into cowardice, you who have instilled hope and pride in so many people-- I love you, and I will always love you, and this is a truth I have never been more certain of." By the end of his confession, Grantaire is looking up at him, hands back on his face, and Enjolras looks back.

He feels seen. It is such a silly sentiment, to feel known and loved from a man who scorns love at every corner, but he does. Warmth nestles back in his chest and for the first time in days, he feels clear headed, if not _embarrassed._ "... Can- what exactly do you love about me?"

He's lowering to meet Grantaire at eye level, slowly but surely, and there is the smell of magic and ozone in the air. Grantaire removes a hand to wipe tears and snot away from his face, sniffles, and smiles. "What isn't there to love? Your radiant smile, for one. You get so worked up about the smallest of things and when all is said and done, when it is just all of us as friends, not revolutionaries, you smile with every inch of your face, let it reach down into your heart and soul-- a man could lose himself in that sincerity if he were not a careful swimmer." 

Enjolras laughs. He feels tingly all over and as he listens, though there is residual pain, he realizes he's not taller than Grantaire anymore. He straightens his back. "Is that all, then? My radiant smile?"

"Oh, no, not at all, love," Grantaire continues, stroking a thumb across his cheek. "No, your sass is what makes me come back. I have never met a man so convincingly brave as you with your social ministrations. You're serious one minute and so silly the next, and it's terribly endearing. I'm afraid you've caught my heart right in the palms of your hands, and your stupid hip dance at the end of August's meeting is what really solidified that for me. You have two left feet. I hope you know that."

He laughs, slightly hoarse but full and lovely, and leans up to capture Grantaire in a kiss, hungry and inviting. The other man is startled, at first, but leans into it fervently, wrapping his arms around Enjolras. The world realigns itself accordingly and if he can still feel a tail wagging happily to an invisible beat only he can hear, he pays it no mind.

He breaks away only to breathe, then rests his head on Grantaire's chest. "You have loved me for that long, then? How silly am I to not have noticed?"

"You are quite oblivious, sometimes, Jules. It is both one of your best and most frustrating traits." A kiss is delivered to his cheek and he turns away, cheeks flushed red. 

"Is that _so?_ " He looks down at himself after a moment or two and takes stock.

He is back to himself, finally. His clothes are tattered and, quite frankly, he does not think there is much to salvage, here, but he is human, whole, and he feels tired but pleased. The unfortunate reminder of the past few day's magic is a leftover tail and a weariness that runs bone deep. Taking Grantaire by the hand, he pulls him back into a hug.

"... Thank you," Enjolras begins. "Thank you. You are loyal to a fault and though it comes from a place of embarrassment, I have trouble expressing the same sentiment- it. I do not _not_ love you. I just. Saying the words, it is unfamiliar--"

Grantaire chuckles, resting his head on his shoulder. "It is all right. I know you have a penchant for emotional constipation. When you are ready to say it, I welcome it readily. Know that I love you for every ounce of your being, whole and fiery, and nothing less, though- and when you need reminding, I shall do so with fervor."

Enjolras hesitates, suddenly unsure. "Are-- shall we name this? Things have changed, do we--"

Grantaire raises his head to look at Enjolras endearingly. "Do you want to?"

He thinks. "... I would like that. Privately, for now, but… yes. I would like that." He initiates another kiss, soft, fleeting, and breaks away. There is no small amount of adoration in his heart, though, as he unsteadily starts towards his room and gazes back at a waiting Grantaire.

As far as outcomes for this situation go, this is perhaps the most preferable, though certainly the least unexpected. He welcomes the change readily.


End file.
